~ Window On Windemere ~

by

Marilyn Gardiner

As always she hesitated at her bedroom door. The room had been painstakingly put together over a span of months. A silk, hand-painted, pale green duvet, sprinkled with dainty white dendrobium orchids--a gift from Kate--and draperies to match were the focal point. A dozen small music boxes decorated the tops of desk, bureau and a table. Her grandmother’s rocker graced a bright corner.

And all thought stopped. There was a moment of shocked and horrified silence as the scene impressed itself on her mind.

And then she screamed.

In the empty house, with no one to hear, she screamed until she could no longer make a sound, then she sank to the floor and buried her head in her hands.

Three

It wasn’t what she thought. She knew that even as she sat with her hands over her eyes. It wasn’t Danny.

Nevertheless, with her eyelids clamped shut, the small figure in the rocker seemed to be emblazoned on the inside of her eyelids. Navy blue short pants and a Big Bird tee, red sneakers that carried his constantly-moving feet wherever his quick mind darted, and white socks. Even the longish, curling brown hair beneath his favorite Cardinals ball cap was the same. But it wasn’t Danny. She repeated the phrase over the pounding of her heart. It wasn’t Danny.

Still, the life-sized doll sat in her memory, short legs outstretched, gazing with sightless eyes at the doorway. At Zoe.

There was a framed photo upstairs in a leather trunk of exactly this scene. Danny dressed much like this, sitting in the rocker. It was beyond weird. It was unbelievable.

Her breath came in short, raspy gasps. What was happening? Questions flew into her head, swooping in and out with frightening rapidity. Where had the doll come from? Who could possibly hate her enough to torture her like this? And why? Oh God, why?

She couldn’t look again. It simply wasn’t in her to open her eyes and see the life-sized, look-alike doll in a rocking chair appearing to be resting only a minute before slipping down and heading at a dead run for the kitchen and a handful of cheesy fishes, his favorite snack.

Without opening her eyes, Zoe rose and turned to face the hall. Take deep breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice steady breaths. She’d make a cup of tea and calm down, and then come back to... to do something with the doll. Not that a cup of cinnamon twist tea with honey would cure everything, but it might be hot enough to stop her hands from shaking and then she could think of what to do next.

First, she had to be able to think straight enough to reason out what exactly was going on. And why. Secondly, she was not--was not--going crazy. All her faculties were in place, without benefit of Zanax, thank you very much, Joseph, she thought with a spark of anger, and that meant surely something could be done about all this.

The voice in the fog. That was one thing, she thought, methodically studying the pattern in the carpet. Think carefully, she cautioned herself over the run-away throb of her heart. Right at the top of any list was the voice of her son speaking to her from the fog. And then, the telephone call. What had the voice said? Something about hurting a cat. She was so rattled she couldn’t remember. Mommy, don’t hurt the cat. No, the kitty. That was it. Danny’s voice pleading with her not to hurt the kitty. It made no sense. Danny would know she’d never hurt one of her precious cats. He’d loved them as much as she did. One of her favorite photos was of Danny asleep on the floor with Methuselah curled in his arms. Why would he say something like that now? And her thoughts jammed. She was thinking as if he were actually speaking to her. A child whom she’d buried over three years ago. No. Start over and think.

But if she truly hadn’t gone over the edge, if she wasn’t imagining these horrible things, what was the alternative? There was only one answer, and it was unimaginable.

Someone was trying to frighten her. Who did she know who was cruel enough to deliberately try to hurt her in the most exquisite way possible? Who would know the exact spot to jab at the vulnerable underbelly of pain she carried within her? For that matter, where had the doll come from? How did it get in the house? Suddenly a possibility struck her so hard that she stopped in mid-step, grabbing the railing for balance. A cold cascade of fear swept from head to toe, drenching her in icy perspiration. Maybe the person who brought the doll was still in the house! Watching. Waiting.

She stumbled down the rest of the steps and, heart clubbing in her chest, turned to look up. She listened so hard her pulse pounded a frantic cadence in her ears. Nothing. No sound. No sight of anyone or anything that should not be there.

Of course not. She forced the thought into her mind. Of course there was no one there. Maybe none of this was happening at all. Maybe, in spite of what she felt, as Joseph believed, she was imagining it. But even as the thought surfaced, she rejected it. She was not imagining the voice, or the doll. They were real. She could touch the doll, if she chose. And, if it was real, that meant someone placed the doll in the rocker for her to find, knowing how she would react. How much it would hurt. Exactly how vulnerable she would be.

Not wanting to, but knowing it had to be done, she forced herself to make a circuit of the house. Knees trembling, heart still pounding, making a deliberate effort not to look through the bedroom door as she passed it, from the basement to the attic, Zoe went through every closet, looked behind every sofa and drapery, peered beneath the beds. Everything was neat and tidy, and no one was hiding anywhere. Nothing.

Heart pounding harder than ever, she went back to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway for a long minute. Then, reluctantly, she crossed the floor to the rocker. He looked so real. Until you looked closely, it would be--it was--easy to assume the figure was flesh and blood. Was Danny. Stretching out a hand, she gently touched the cheek and then the hair of the doll. It was solid, a real figure and definitely not her imagination. Without thought, she picked it up and held it tenderly in the circle of her arm.

No it wasn’t Danny, but the soft body, the size and weight, was so similar her throat closed painfully. Rocking back and forth, she thought of the many afternoons she’d rocked just like this before putting him down for a nap. Not that he ever slept long. He was too busy. Life was full of exciting things and he was too curious to waste time in sleep.

The anger came swiftly, taking her by surprise. This had been a deliberate, cruel and carefully thought out trick. Who? Who had access to the house? Joseph of course. Valencia had her own key, the lady who helped with cleaning, and with her often came her nephew, Santos, who worked in the yard, keeping the lawn mowed and trimmed and the flowers weeded. Who else had a key? Nobody. Well, Bree. But Gabrielle was in Winsom, and Bree wouldn’t do something like this to hurt her. There was no one else. Her eyes narrowed in thought and she forced herself to breath slowly.

Oh, the real estate man. Of course, he had access to a key, to show the house when the opportunity arose. She couldn’t think of another soul who could get into the house. She’d ask Joseph when he came home if he’d given the key out to anyone.

Carefully, she replaced the doll, straightening the legs, putting the hands in its lap, lovingly arranging the bill on the cap. She’d come back later and deal with him. Joseph wouldn’t want him in their bedroom, of that she was certain. He was the one who’d relegated the photo to the chest upstairs. He thought it was bad for her to have constant reminders of Danny around.